No one knows where I am and that feels so good. It’s odd, but out here, way beyond where I’m allowed to be, I feel safer than when I’m at home. I pedal past field after field, imagining that I never have to turn around. I pull up familiar daydreams as soon as my tires leave concrete and hit dirt. I free fall into my inner world and fantasize meeting someone, falling in love, and “being mean” with him, all before I’m on the lonely stretch of highway that carries me back into Wynrock’s boring boundaries.
My rubbing on the edge of a bed, a pillow, or a rolled-up towel are all ways Mom has caught me being mean, prompting me to become sly and circumspect when I get the urge for that feel-good feeling. She has no idea what I can do with a vibrating bike seat.
“Good girls don’t touch themselves down there, ever,” Momma makes clear to me, over and over. “And neither should girls ever touch that part of their body to something else,” she adds. The only things that should touch that area are toilet paper and underwear. Touching “the area between my legs” to anything else is dirty and bad. Period. Besides saying “the area between your legs” for designating this place, crotch is also used, although it is usually associated with underwear and slacks. When I say the word crotch, my nose wants to scrunch up, like crotch is some nasty, smelly place.
I don’t think Momma has ever seen what Daddy and I do together, although I have heard her accuse him of being mean to me, so maybe she does know. Daddy is very careful about when we have our “special times,” and I never talk about what we do with anyone. But now that I’m getting older, sometimes I wonder about the words, “being mean.” Does Momma call what I do being mean because I continue to do this even after being told it is bad and wrong? I get the urge to be mean often, even when I try not to. It’s not just for the rush I get, but also because I feel special for being able to share this experience with Daddy, who gets a good feeling too when we be mean together.
Daddy moves me on his leg in just the right way, creating that same rush of sensation that comes from using a rolled-up towel or hovering upon a vibrating bike seat on a gravelly road. Only what Daddy does with me can feel even better; it’s just that my feelings get mixed up after we’ve been together. I’m not sure why our times together have to be secret, or why Daddy seems to like me when we’re being mean, but later acts mad at me, or like I’m invisible.
No mixed-up feelings happen on a bike ride, and I have figured out how to enhance an ongoing fantasy in just the right place. If I float and linger just slightly above my bike seat on the gravelly road, delicately holding this prolonged position, my vibrating seat will soon have my legs quivering and my body trembling.
A LITTLE DABB’LL DO YA
1961–1965 (ages 9-13)—Abilene, Texas
“Piggy wants a signal!” Johnny hollers out from where he just opened his eyes after counting out loud to twenty-five. We had all scurried to our hiding places, but no matter how good, all those in hiding have to make some kind of audible noise when the piggy demands a signal. The piggy will then go on a search toward any oink, whistle, or groan, and if you are caught, into the pigpen you go!
Dabb, my dog, is standing right outside the bushes where I am hiding, wagging his tail.
“Get in here, Dabb!” I try to pull him in. He thinks it’s a game and plays hard to get, growling in delight.
“You’re caught!” Johnny exclaims. “Dabb gave you away again. Into my pen!” And Johnny drags me over to the area where I have to stay unless another player manages to sneak in and tag me while the piggy is out on another search. It doesn’t matter if I get free, Dabb will give me away again. I don’t care; I love my little dog fiercely.
Momma named him because of his size and mix, something along the lines of mutt, Chihuahua and Manchester—mud-brown, twenty ugly but lovable pounds. He stays outside most of the day, but when Daddy isn’t home, we slip Dabb in. I have never had a dog that feels like my own. I saved Dabb’s baby teeth when they fell out and created a baby book for him where I keep track of when we got him, who his friends are, what toys he has, and when he gets hurt or sick. I even sewed him his own Christmas stocking, and I make sure he gets gifts as well. Dabb runs along beside me on bike rides and follows me down to the creek when I sneak off to explore the garbage dump outside our Wynrock housing development. Dabb hears my whispered secrets, and he loves me all the same. He is my constant, there when the school bus pulls up to the bus stop, regardless of the weather, ready to walk me home. He is my best friend, and the most assuring love I have ever known. When he is with me, I feel safe.
Daddy complains that Dabb is always in the way, and that he stinks. He nags that I treat Dabb like a toy. My first toy was my stuffed dog Lullaby, so having a little dog is sort of like having another toy, only this one licks me, plays with me, follows me around, always waits for me, and really loves me.
At ten years old, I ask for a new bike for Christmas. My old one is too small and falling apart. Daddy puts a small wrapped present under the tree and announces I will like it a lot more than a new bike. It is heavy and dense.
“Maybe it’s a radio. You’ll love it!” Dad jokes. “What I should get you is a new dog. Get rid of that mutt you hang out with all the time. Let me do that and then you can have that bike you want.”
“I don’t want a different dog. And I don’t want a radio.” My old bike is too short for my long legs. I try to imagine riding it for another year, my knees hitting my chin. I’d rather do that than lose Dabb.
Dabb and I get up early on that Christmas morning. Sometimes he gets to stay in my room during the winter. Momma and Daddy get up too, but my older sister Pamela, now a teenager, prefers to sleep. Paula didn’t come home from college this year.
“Check out the radio I got you,” Daddy prods, “You’re going to like it more than a bike.”
I pick up the heavy gift, slowly take off the wrapping paper, and discover a brick. Taped to it are directions to a spot in the garage. Dabb and I race through the back door, find the spot, and pull an old blanket off of a shiny new silver and gold Huffy bike.
Dad opens the garage door and off I ride, Dabb dancing alongside me. I squeal in delight, riding up and down the street, my legs able to stretch and push the pedals with ease. I discover a little button on the side that is a horn and push it over and over. Now I will be able to ride farther and faster with this bigger bike. Dad has just been trying to fool me; he gave me what I wanted after all!
Soon I begin sneaking out way beyond my boundaries of Wynrock. I lock Dabb up in the backyard, so he won’t follow me. Since there is a stretch of highway before I reach the dirt road I like to ride on, I can’t take a chance on Dabb getting hit by a car speeding by.
One day when I come home from an out-of-bounds ride, Dabb is not in the yard. I am surprised to see Daddy home early. He comments Dabb must have gotten out somehow. I wonder if he tried to follow me, so I hop on my bike and take off on a search, calling and whistling, confident I will find my little dog. But no Dabb. I check with neighbors and playmates, but no one has seen him. I ride until I can’t see anymore and drag myself home after dusk. Momma seems quiet and sad, but Daddy supposes that Dabb just ran away.
“He wouldn’t run off,” I say. “He’s always here for his supper. He wouldn’t run away from me.”
“Oh, you got the bike you wanted. Forget about that stinky mutt,” Dad says.
After days, it’s clear Dabb has disappeared, and I am heartbroken. Daddy tosses out the bed Dabb used in the garage and fills in a few holes Dabb had dug in the yard. I continue to ride my bike throughout Wynrock, keeping my rides now to those same boring blocks, looking and calling for my little dog. At home, I sit at the front window and stare, wondering how Dabb could just disappear like that. Maybe he followed me out to the highway and was hit by a car. But I search that stretch of road and don’t find him. My heart aches in a way I have never known it could, a soreness right in the center of my chest.
Several weeks later, Dabb comes limping home
. Momma discovers him first and calls for me to come out. Dabb is skinny, dirty, covered with ticks, and though tired he wags his tail when I kneel down, kissing and hugging him. Momma fills a tub and we bathe him, picking off all the fat ticks. I give him some food, and carry my pint-size wonder into my bedroom, then sleep beside him all afternoon.
Later Momma tells me that somebody probably carted Dabb off and let him out of their car way out in the country somewhere, but my Dabb’s big heart led him right back home to me.
When Daddy gets home he is genuinely surprised to see Dabb. “Well,” he complains, “that little dog knows how to find his way home.”
Apparently, he thought someone had carried Dabb off as well. The way Dabb now backs away from Daddy makes me wonder if Dad could have done that.
“Who would steal a dog and throw him out?” I question Momma in front of Daddy. She quietly shakes her head and avoids looking at me. Daddy humphs out of the room.
“Just be happy he’s back. It’s a miracle,” Momma finally answers when Daddy is gone.
My love for Dabb knows no bounds after that scare, even as I enter junior high. He continues to meet me at the bus stop, and we cuddle together whenever we can. Now that Daddy is driving a moving truck and often away from home, Dabb can spend plenty of time in my room. When Daddy comes home, Dabb doesn’t even want to come in the house.
A little over a year later, while Daddy is away, Dabb begins having trouble standing and starts throwing up. Momma says he is getting old and has never been like he was before his long journey home. My friends send get-well cards to my little dog while I worry and worry. After a particularly hard week for Dabb, one night I stay up with him; he is so sick. I want to stay home from school that day, but Momma won’t let me. I can’t think about anything else but Dabb all day. Rushing into the house after school, I find his bed empty. Momma comes into the kitchen and says she finally had to take him to the vet.
“They put him to sleep. There was nothing else they could do.”
“My dog is dead? They couldn’t make him well?” I cry out. “He just needed some medicine! He would have gotten better if I had stayed with him! I should have been with him! You let him die!”
“Now you know your Dad would not have us paying a vet bill to try to save Dabb. I couldn’t wait for you to come home from school and then go back to the vet. I was already there. It was time for him to go.”
Time for him to go? We couldn’t pay for Dabb to get well? He died while I was at stupid school, and I didn’t get to say goodbye? Wailing, I run to my room and slam the door. I can’t imagine living without my little dog. I am afraid to be without him.
I grab Lullaby off my closet shelf and curl up in bed, sobbing into the fur of my old stuffed dog.
IS WHAT WE DO SEX?
1963–1964 (ages 11-12)—Abilene, Texas
“See how far it goes in?” Judy holds up the long bobby pin, marking with her finger how far the pin went into my hole. She lives on the same street as I do here in Wynrock.
“Do me,” she insists, handing me the shorts I took off earlier.
I get up and step into my shorts as she slips out of hers to lie down on the bench in her garage. Taking the bobby pin, I find the hole between her legs, and slide the pin in.
“Wow, that could go even deeper if the pin was longer.” I am fascinated. Although I have felt my dad’s fingers move down there, I didn’t know where they were going. I have never used a mirror to look down there, nor even put a finger inside myself. Looking at Judy, I can see what I have but, still, none of it makes much sense to me, or even looks very pretty.
Judy informs me that hole is where a man puts his penis during sex. I wonder how she knows, but don’t ask. That’s sex? Penis in that hole? I am glad for the information, just like when I learned the word penis from a five-year-old I babysat. I told him to wash his pee-pee during a bath and he told me it was his penis.
A year after Judy’s and my explorations, I am invited to a slumber party with a group of my junior high friends, most from the Baptist church I sometimes attend. These girls live across the freeway from our weedy housing development, in the part of town Mom calls “fancy.” After finally settling down for the night, our bedrolls laid out on a plush rug in a family room, I fell asleep. Suddenly someone was crawling on top of me and kissing me. It took me a moment to realize it was one of my girlfriends, and that everyone was doing this, in total silence. We humped and kissed one another until the novelty fizzled out, then we each crawled back to our own bedroll and fell asleep. The next morning, no one said a word about what happened. It was almost like a dream, only I could feel how sore that hard place way below my belly button was from pressing and being pressed upon. It had been like a game of musical chairs, only no one was ever left out.
Weeks later, I whisper to one of my friends who was there, “What do you call what we were doing that night?” Familiar with such humping, I wondered if others called it “being mean,” like my mother.
“Just something that feels good,” Kathy whispers. “Sort of like practicing for sex. But it’s not sex. That only happens when a girl is with a guy. Don’t ever talk about what we did.”
Got it. I know how to keep secrets. So, what we were doing would be sex if between a guy and a girl? Sex is penis in the hole and humping?
Now I know other girls like to hump too. Maybe they even do it with their dads. It does feel better with a person. Maybe what Daddy and I do is just fine. Only I keep remembering when Momma and Daddy fought about him being mean to me, and he told her to shut up. It seems like she doesn’t want him being mean with me, and she continues to angrily accuse me of being mean whenever I am in the bathroom with the door locked. If she doesn’t want Daddy and me to do this together, why doesn’t she tell me that, or make Daddy stop? Why is it so important to keep being mean secret?
Momma tells me my sisters are pretty, and how they didn’t need braces. She sews my clothes, and when she measures me, she shakes her head. She says my legs are too long and my waist too high. I’m not very pretty—skinny with buckteeth—but when I’m being mean with Daddy, I feel sort of pretty, like in a “secret-pretty” kind of way.
The next year, Daddy starts driving a moving van line truck, moving people from one state clear across the country to another. Momma gets a job working in the lingerie section of a department store. Paula is in college, and Pam often out on dates. When Daddy is home between routes, he and I have time alone at home, but he is still edgy about our special times together, always listening for Pam or Momma to come home. But no one ever does. I want to ask him why it is so important that we keep these times secret, but I don’t. Daddy makes it clear that I should never talk during or about our times together, ever, not with him, or with anyone else.
On one of Daddy’s visits home, he tells me to come on a drive with him in his big semi-truck. He says he needs to go somewhere to do something. I feel special. After about fifteen minutes, we pull over at a roadside park, and Daddy says he wants to show me where he sleeps when he’s away on his trips. Then he crawls back into this little bed space behind the seats and motions for me to follow, which I do. I always do what Daddy tells me to do when we are together.
“Isn’t this nice? We can be all alone here and not worry about anyone coming home,” he says smiling. He slips out of his pants and tells me to take off my shorts.
We stretch out on the cozy bed and Daddy draws some short curtains closed. Pulling me on top of him, he begins moving his leg between my own in that familiar way that makes us both feel good. I know because his penis gets big and hard as he presses it against my thigh with his hand, moving me up and down and up and down on his leg until I get that dizzy rush of good feeling while he jerks and moans. I feel the slippery stuff that comes out of him when we do this.
We lie there a while. I want Daddy to tell me he loves me and that I’m pretty. He hasn’t told me this for a long time and, in fact, sometimes jokes about how skinny I am. Daddy’s eyes a
re closed and I am wondering if we just had sex since we’re a guy and a girl, even though we didn’t use the hole Judy and I stuck the bobby pin into. I am so confused about all of this, and want to ask Daddy, but he has already started wiping us both off and is slipping on his pants. He tells me to put on my shorts.
Back in our seats, we begin the drive out of the roadside park.
“Is what we do sex?” I blurt out. I have to know.
“No.” Daddy answers impatiently and with authority. “It is not sex. It’s just a little something that feels good and helps us relax. Momma doesn’t understand, so don’t ever say anything to her.”
“So it’s okay, what we do? Did you do this with Pam and Paula?”
Daddy lets out sort of a laugh and a snort mixed together.
“Seems like it feels okay to you,” he answers. “With all the time you spend rubbing up against things, what’s wrong with using me?”
How did Daddy know about my being mean habit? Did Momma tell him? We stop at a stop sign.
“Doesn’t this feel okay?” Daddy leans over and places a hand in my crotch, slipping his fingers under my shorts, pressing and moving them around, only now what he is doing doesn’t feel okay, and the look on his face doesn’t seem right.
“Stop it, Daddy.”
“I bet if I kept on you wouldn’t tell me to stop. You never have. You like it too much. That’s why no one would believe you if you told them about our times together. You want me to do this.”
He continues to move his fingers and he is right, I start to feel good. Why does that happen? Why do I like how this feels so much? Why do I want to be doing this with Daddy? Something is wrong with me. I feel scared of myself and Daddy. I want him to love me, but right now it doesn’t seem like he does. Not thinking, I reach to open the door, without noticing the big truck has already started to roll forward. I get the door open and am turning to get out when Daddy screams at me.
Being Mean Page 3
